


Secret Santa, Baby

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Adult Peter Parker, Aged-Up Character(s), Avengers Family, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Getting Together, Gift Giving, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Lingerie, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nobody is Dead, Outdoor Sex, POV Peter Parker, POV Tony Stark, Plotting, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Secret Santa, Sort-of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21760231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tony never intended to become Peter's Secret Santa. He just sort of stumbles into it. But now that he is, he's going to take advantage of it. Tony's got one week to spoil the kid, one week until Christmas. He just has to make sure that his secret stays secret.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 89
Kudos: 639
Collections: Marvel(ous)Universe





	1. Mittens

It starts with mittens. Red cable-knit, made from alpaca wool, cinched at the wrist so he can still use his web shooters while he’s wearing them, and lined with conductive thread for easy phone use. Peter finds them on the foot of his bed in the tower the week before Christmas, wrapped in brown paper and tied with thin red twine.

There’s a note written in black Sharpie on the paper. It just says For: Peter in one corner. No corresponding From:. Peter’s cautious about it at first. His villains tend to have a weird sense of humor, and he doesn’t want to get pulled into some sort of Wile E. Coyote-style trap by reaching out for the package. He’d probably survive an anvil to the head just fine, but he doesn’t want to test the theory.

In the end, though, it’s harmless. The mittens fit perfectly, and they’re very well-insulated. They’ll be perfect for swinging around the city in the middle of winter. Peter just wants to know who to thank. So he puts them on and walks down to the large common area where some of the Avengers are gathered, getting ready for group dinner. Natasha and Bruce are setting the table, Sam and Bucky are deep into a Mario Kart race, and Tony’s in the kitchen, sautéing vegetables in a wok for a stir-fry with Nebula hanging over his shoulder.

“But how did the corn get tiny?” She’s asking, eyeing a stalk of baby corn suspiciously. “Do you use a shrink-ray? Is there any latent radiation?”

“It’s not important how the corn gets tiny,” Tony replies. “Just put it in your mouth.”

“You don’t know, do you?” she says, squinting.

“I … Do not,” Tony admits with a huff. “But there’s no latent radiation unless you count MSG. Which is delicious, so there.”

“Hey, does anyone know who got me these?” Peter asks, waving his mitten-clad hands around from the doorway. “There wasn’t a ‘From.’”

Six pairs of eyes focus on him, and Peter gets a chorus of denials.

“Oh. Secret Santa,” Wanda says, coming up from behind him. “When did we draw names?”

“We didn’t,” Natasha says, laying a pile of silverware down on the end of the long dining table. She approaches Peter and takes his mitten-clad hands in both of hers, turning them this way and that. “Hmmm.”

“A secret admirer then,” Wanda says.

She doesn’t actually add the “ooooh” like they’re in middle school, but her tone definitely implies it. Peter can’t help that he flushes in response. It can’t actually be a secret admirer, can it? Peter doesn’t feel like he’s the type to inspire those kinds of gifts. Maybe May sent them over and just forgot to tell him to look out for a package.

There’s a strangled cough from somewhere that breaks Peter out of his thoughts. When he looks up from his hands, his eyes go immediately to Tony, who’s got a lazy smirk plastered across his face.

“Mittens, kid?” the man calls from the kitchen. “You let me know if you need me to zip up your coat for you, won’t you? Or tie your shoes.”

Ok, so maybe mittens are a little childish, but there’s no need to mock. Peter fights the way his body wants to flush a darker red. The last thing he wants is for Tony to look at him as even more of a kid. Maybe it’s inevitable, though. No matter how much Peter would like the man to magically realize that he is very, very grown up.

“They were a gift, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, defensively. “And I think they’re nice.”

He brings his hands up to his face, rubbing the soft material against his skin, humming at the feeling.

Ever since the spider bite, Peter’s senses have been elevated. Dialed to 11, he likes to say. That includes his sense of touch. Peter’s particular about things like sheet thread count and the material for his clothes in a way that belies his normally laid-back nature. When cotton often make your skin feel like it’s being rubbed by sandpaper, you have to be.

These mittens, though, feel amazing. Peter closes his eyes for a brief moment to enjoy the slide of the soft wool against his cheek. When he opens them again, Tony isn’t staring at him any longer. Instead he’s got a faraway look in his eyes, completely clocked out of the moment.

Probably he’s looking at something on the display of the tinted smart glasses he hardly ever takes off. Peter wants to wave his arms around and yell “Look at me!” but that would also severely undermine his desire to be seen as a grown person.

It’s a problem that Peter wants Tony’s eyes on him all the time. It’s a problem that he resents those stupid glasses for creating a barrier between them. Plus, there’s at least a million dollars-worth of technology running through the chunky frames of those glasses, so he should probably stop fantasizing about ripping them off the man’s face and grinding them under his heel.

One moment Mr. Stark is far away, and the next he blinks and he’s back with them. His voice comes out sort of strained when he speaks.

“Right, well far be it for me to beat a gift horse,” he says. “I guess it really is the thought that counts.”

Nebula has both elbows on the kitchen counter watching the exchange. She rolls her eyes wearily at Tony, and then tugs on his sleeve.

“Dinner is burning,” she deadpans.

There is a plume of acrid smoke spiraling up from the wok, and Tony curses and pulls everything off the heat. The room fills with jibes from Clint, and cautions from Bruce, and Sam yelling about ordering take out. The weird moment passes.

They salvage the stir fry and eat in the living room while they watch Die Hard. Peter can hardly hear the dialogue over Tony and Clint’s argument about whether or not it’s actually a Christmas movie.

“It may take place during Christmas,” Clint argues. “But it’s not about the spirit of Christmas.”

“Christmas is about celebrating joy,” Tony says. “And Yippee-kay-yay motherfucker brings me joy. That is the spirit of Christmas, my friend.”

Peter tries and fails to concentrate on either the movie or the conversation. He can’t seem to shake the fluttery feeling in his stomach. The idea that he has a secret admirer is sort of captivating. Someone cares enough about him to notice he lost his gloves – gone along with yet another backpack while he was out on patrol a couple weeks ago – and gift him a new pair without wanting any credit.

Maybe it’s not a romantic thing. Mittens aren’t particularly sexy, after all. But even still, it makes Peter feel warm inside. He settles back into the couch and holds onto that feeling, savoring it until the movie ends.

*

Tony never intended to become Peter’s Secret Santa, but things in his life have a way of spiraling, especially when it comes to this kid.

It started out innocently enough. Last week when he’d met Peter for coffee on campus, he’d noticed that the kid’s hands were red and raw because he didn’t have any gloves. Tony had wanted to remedy that situation. It’s the middle of December. Seriously, why doesn’t Peter have a pair of gloves?

Not signing the package had been part oversight, part swagger. A thoughtless _You Know Who I Am_ gesture. Tony’s about to own up to the gift over the din of his teammates’ chatter when Wanda says it. _A secret admirer._

Tony nearly chokes on his tongue at those words. He flounders. That … That’s not. That’s absolutely not what’s happening. Nope. It was a friendly gesture. Mittens, he assures himself. They’re just mittens. Tony takes a deep breath, plasters a grin across his face, teases the kid a little.

It’s innocent. Totally innocent. Peter quips right back, and everything is fine. Then he brings the mittens up to his face and closes his eyes and practically purrs. Tony’s pulse spikes, and he can feel cold beads a sweat pop instantaneously up on his forehead. _What the fuck?_

The thing is, Tony’s never consciously thought about Peter in that way. He keeps those thoughts locked away in a corner of his brain reserved for all of his worst impulses.

In recent years, he’s been pretty good at keeping those impulses in check. He drinks in moderation, he keeps his lab binges to 24 hours or less, he allows Bruce to check over his Iron Man designs before testing them on himself. He knows he almost died in that final battle with Thanos. He should probably be dead. Since he’s not, he’s trying to be a little more careful with the reprieve he’s been given.

But there’s something about seeing Peter wearing something Tony bought for him, eyes closed, mouth slightly open on a little moan. It makes all those completely inappropriate thoughts he’s been holding in break through their barrier and trample all over his brain. By the time he’s corralled them back behind a fence made of duct tape and hope, dinner is almost ruined.

It’s Nebula, giving him a sharp and entirely too knowing look, who manages to resuscitate the food into something edible. Tony essentially puts himself on auto pilot. He’s got a big brain, so he mostly thinks no one notices. They watch a movie. Tony thinks he start an argument. It’s a bit fuzzy because the largest part of his mind is elsewhere, processing.

Tony has always been truly, deeply horrible at Christmas gifts. He never knows the right thing to get anyone, so his MO is to go for quantity, or sometimes just sheer size, over quality. Of course he knew Pepper didn’t want a massive stuffed bunny for Christmas, alright? The problem was, he didn’t know what else the woman possibly could want. Hence giant nightmare bunny. There, sadly, have been a lot of giant nightmare bunnies over the years.

With Peter, inexplicably, it isn’t like that. Tony can think of a hundred things right now – none truly over the top by his standards – he could get for the kid that would be perfect presents.

It doesn’t hurt, of course, that Peter seems to greet anything Tony gives him, no matter how small, with unadulterated excitement. The suit, naturally. But also the weird candy he buys on his trips abroad for business. Beta tapes he’d found in an old storage unit that Peter had had to reverse engineer a player for. Mittens (Really, just a step above socks). All greeted with that same wide, genuine Peter Parker smile. Tony really, really likes that smile. He likes being the cause of it even more.

So while she may have made his brain go haywire earlier, Wanda has also opened up an avenue of possibility for Tony. Secret Santa, she had said. He can do that. He can keep giving Peter gifts. At least up until Christmas. This way, Tony can give the kid whatever he wants. He doesn’t have to censor himself, or worry about how anything would look, or who might read something into it. It’s a secret. No one, including Peter, ever has to know who the presents are coming from. 

There’s an element of danger in the whole scenario only because Tony knows himself. He sets these boundaries, but then he likes to linger around that line, toe at it, walk it like it’s a goddamn balance beam, and before you know it he’s over one line and approaching the next.

But maybe this thing will work. Seeing Peter wear his gift tonight had made something primal in Tony stand up at attention. Maybe being able to give the kid Christmas gifts for the week – to receive seven perfect Parker smiles in compensation – will appease the beast that’s now prowling around in Tony’s gut, make it curl up for a long winter’s nap.

Tony’s a dirty old man, but Peter never has to know that. All he has to know is that someone likes him enough to want to give him gifts. And what’s wrong with that, really?

Alan Rickman dramatically falls out of a window, and Tony’s teammates head to bed. Peter gives him a soft, yawning “Good night, Mr. Stark” that makes his stomach flip. Then he heads to the lab where he sits down with FRIDAY to plan out the next six days. If Tony’s gonna be a Secret Santa, he’s gonna do it right.


	2. Puzzles and Christmas Trees

As they make their way through a heaving sea of people, Peter reaches out and grasps the hem of Tony’s sleeve, applying the microscopic setules on his fingers to grip tight lest they lose one another. Herald Square, six days ‘til Christmas was probably a really, really dumb idea. But Tony had promised to help him pick out Christmas presents for Natasha and Hope because Peter hasn’t a clue.

When they were together, he’d always gotten Michelle books. Giant tomes on philosophy and political science that she had seemed happy enough with. But he has a feeling that’s not what other women usually want. Plus, Peter really wanted an excuse to go and look at the Christmas display windows.

Sensing Peter’s grip on his coat, Tony shakes him off, leaving Peter confused for a second before the other man takes a firm hold on Peter’s hand and hauls him forward so they’re walking side by side instead of single file.

“Keep up, Underoos,” he says. “Aunt Hottie would never forgive me if I lost you before we even got to Macy’s.”

His tone is grumbling, but affectionate. Maybe it should be infantilizing, but honestly Peter feels like nothing can bring him down today. Certainly not getting to surreptitiously hold Tony’s hand – their palms separated only by the red wool of Peter’s new mittens.

As it turns out, the gift from his Secret Santa hadn’t been a one-off thing, because when Peter woke up this morning there was another package on his nightstand. Same wrapping – brown paper, red twine – and same terse address in black ink. For: Peter. No From:.

Peter had set it gently in the middle of his bed.

“Um, Friday?” he’d asked. “Do you know who left this here?”

It was a long beat before Friday answered.

“Do you really want me to tell you that, Peter?”

Well, she’d had a point. It’s not that Peter doesn’t want to know who it is, it’s just that he’d rather the mystery person reveal themselves. Plus, it’s kind of nice. The secrecy. The surprise of it all. He finds he isn’t in a rush to ferret out the truth.

“No,” Peter had answered. “I guess not.”

“What’s got you grinning like that?” Tony asks, pulling Peter back into the present. “You look kind of like you swallowed a light bulb.”

Peter scrunches up his face and wriggles his nose a little, uncomfortable under the sudden, unexpected scrutiny from Tony. He always feels a little inadequate next him.

For one, Tony’s always stylish. Today, for instance, he’s wearing a navy blue wool overcoat that hangs down below his knees, double breasted with shiny gold buttons and cut just so, a giant-faced, leather-banded watch that probably cost more than Peter’s tuition this semester, and a pair of giant, rose-tinted smart glasses with thick aviator frames. Peter likes the look a lot. It’s very … _Authoritative._ And no, he’s not going to examine what that says about him. Nope.

Peter, in contrast, is in red converse and jeans, wearing the same beaten-up brown leather jacket he’s had for the past two years, purchased at the Salvation Army store for ten dollars. A real steal, even if the leather is cracking at the elbows and around the seams.

“I got another gift from my Secret Santa this morning,” Peter tells Tony as they slide through the crowd, bumping shoulders with strangers as they go.

Tony’s eyes flick over to Peter.

“And what did Santa bring you today?” he asks.

Peter can’t help the smile that breaks over his face.

“It’s really cool, actually. This elaborate puzzle box. I worked on it for an hour today, and I couldn’t figure it out.”

The box really is beautiful, made of steel with intricate cogwork on the outside and small enough to fit in the palm of Peter’s hand. He’d felt a surge of victory when he’d managed to turn the cogs in just the right way so that the top clicked open, only to realize there was another layer of puzzle inside. How many layers, he wonders?

What Peter really wants to know, though, is what’s in the center of the box. He’s got an inkling it might just be a name, that this is his benefactor’s way of revealing themselves in slow motion. It’s a sweetly romantic thought, really.

“A Rubix Cube,” Tony says, chuckling. “Your Secret Santa got you a Rubix Cube.”

His tone is sharp, and Peter feels the need to put the man in his place just a little. He turns to him and widens his eyes as far as they will go.

“Mr. Stark,” he says. “What’s a Rubix Cube?”

Tony’s jaw drops open.

“Wha … I mean …”

“Wait, wait,” Peter says, snapping his fingers. “Is that that antique toy? Yeah, I think I know it. The one from when you were growing up, right, sir?”

The man’s expression shifts from shock to one that’s part grimace, part repressed smile.

“You little shit,” he says.

“You seriously thought I didn’t know what a Rubix Cube was?” Peter says, grinning. “I have studied the ancient texts of the nerd, Mr. Stark. I know their ways.”

“Yeah, yeah,” a slightly-chastened Tony replies. “Laugh it up, kid.”

They’ve slowed to a near-stop while the rest of New York swirls around them like a current. Peter tugs on Tony’s hand, still grasping his.

“C’mon,” he says. “We need to get there before they close.”

It’s not actually that late, closing in on seven, but it always feels later than it is this time of year. Something to do with the heavy darkness that falls beginning around four each day. Tonight it’s so cold that Peter can see his exhalations rise in little white puffs as they hit the air, and the pavement is wet and shining from a bout of freezing rain earlier.

But the lights of the city do a good deal to combat the cold, wet darkness. The lampposts are wrapped in golden twinkle lights, and multi-colored decorations fizz from almost every doorway and window. The shopkeepers are all doing their part to beat back the encroaching night.

When they reach the giant stone edifice of Macy’s, Tony tries to head directly to the entrance, but Peter tugs again, this time using just a touch of spider strength so that they can stop and look at the window displays.

“Watch the arm,” Tony grumbles, but he doesn’t protest the detour.

Peter’s always thought the Christmas displays at the big department stores had an aura of magic about them. As a kid, it always seemed like they appeared overnight, the work of non-unionized elves doing serious overtime.

“Wow,” he exhales, eyes fixed on the window.

The store’s theme this year is Christmas around the world, and the display they’ve stopped in front of features the Italian Christmas Witch La Befana. She’s carved of wood and resin, a surprisingly effective, weathered face. In the scene, she’s flying through the sky on her broom while below her two children are sleeping, the shoes at the foots of their beds now filled with bright toys and candy. Behind it all is the backdrop of a Christmas tree so massive it scrapes the ceiling, perfectly color-coordinated in a dozen shades of green from chartreuse to olive.

“My ma used to put up Christmas trees like that,” Tony says, so softly that Peter thinks for a second that he’s just talking to himself.

He narrows his eyes to look at his mentor, who’s attention is still focused on the window.

“Like what?” he asks.

“Color coordinated,” Tony replies. “Down to the last bauble. She was a very fashionable lady, and the trees always had to be on point. Everything was red one year. Looked a little demonic. There was an unfortunate teal year in the mid-80s. They do make teal tinsel, in case you were wondering. Dreams do come true.”

Peter snorts, not wanting to derail the story with full-out laughter.

“Oh,” Tony says. “And one year she did all the decorations in purple. Clint’s brain would have exploded with sheer joy.”

“May and I never got our shit together soon enough to color coordinate anything,” Peter says. Tony so rarely says anything about his mother, that he feels the need to answer a confidence with a confidence. “We had this ancient aluminum tree from, like, the 1960s. Ben found it at the Goodwill one year for a couple bucks. No one else wanted it.

“So every year on December first we’d pull it out from the coat closet and put it in a corner. And there it would sit until usually Christmas Eve, when we would finally remember that, yes, Christmas trees usually have ornaments. Then it got covered up in colored lights and all the hideous ornaments I made in elementary school. Ugliest thing you’ve ever seen in your life.”

“I’d like to see it sometime,” Tony says. “Sounds charming.”

Peter lets out a pained little groan.

“That’s the thing,” he says. “The tacky silver tree is no more. I went over a couple weeks ago to help May set it up, and there was this perfectly normal tree in the corner. Already decorated. Apparently Happy’s family always does live trees.”

“No,” Tony says in what is probably faux disbelief, but Peter runs with it.

“I know!” he says. “And get this, I asked to take the silver monstrosity home with me, thought I’d set it up in my room or something, and she tells me she threw it away. My childhood thrown into the dumpster.”

Most of Peter is putting on a little song and dance, telling an entertaining story, but a part of him really is sad. He’d loved that hideous tree, and Christmas just feels a little off without it. He doesn’t have a memory of their apartment during the holidays without it.

Tony, of course, cuts through his bullshit. He puts a warm, comforting hand on Peter’s shoulder, turns to actually look him in the face and says “I’m sorry, kid. That sucks.”

“It’s silly,” Peter insists. “I shouldn’t care. Just a stupid tree.”

“Hey,” Tony says, rubbing soothing circles over Peter’s shoulder bone. “It’s ok to be a little sad about it, you know? There’s all this … Weight around holiday traditions, right? It’s different from anything else. I, um, I feel that too. I swear, this time of year the tiniest things can ruin my day. A Christmas tree, someone playing the fucking piano …”

He trails off, clearing his throat. Peter isn’t ready, though, to let him go. He looks up into Tony’s face and sees the way his mouth twitches sadly downward and the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling as he blinks rapidly and prepares for his retreat.

He’s not quite sure what force compels him to reach out and snatch the glasses from off of Tony’s face. It feels as though someone else is controlling his muscles. It’s purely instinctual, an effort to break down the walls between them and extend this moment of openness for just a little bit longer.

Peter’s feels shocked at his own boldness. The dark circles under Tony’s eyes are more pronounced without the red scrim of the glasses to diffuse them, the fine lines more distinct. The man tilts his head in confusion, purses his lips together in an attempt to hide the grin that threatens to creep across his face.

Unable to think of what to do next, Peter follows the pull in his gut that’s telling him to bolt. He flashes a wide smile at Tony, settles the glasses on the top of his head, and runs. The cold wind whips hard at his cheeks as Peter cuts through the crowds like a needle through thread. When he dares look back, he sees Tony following close on his heels, barely stopping to excuse himself as he barrels through.

“Thief!” he yells. “Come back here you little …”

The rest of his words are swallowed up by the wind.

Peter lets out a little whoop to expel some of his pent up energy and charges ahead. When he reaches the end of the block, he swings into an alley, out of the mass of people, and considers doing a little wall-crawling to make good on his escape.

Before he can, though, a hand catches his arm and pulls him around. Peter’s back slams against the wall, and he’s looking up into Tony’s face. Illuminated only by the ambient glow of twinkle lights from out on the street, his expression seems suddenly dark and hungry. They’re both panting breathlessly from the chase.

“Think you’ve got something that belongs to me, kid,” Tony says, his tone rumbling and low.

Then he _leans_ toward Peter in a way that makes the breath catch in the back of his throat. He can hear his pulse pounding in his ears when Tony reaches up to run a hand through his hair. It’s not until he feels the tug of the glasses being untangled from his curls that he understands exactly what’s happening.

Tony places the glasses back on his own nose, and pulls his chest away from Peter’s painstakingly slowly. It’s only after he’s taken two steps back that Peter regains the ability to breathe.

“So,” he says. “Christmas shopping, yes?”

“Yes,” Peter says, head nodding like a bobble head. “Right.”

“C’mon then, Underoos. Let’s go pick out something pretty for the ladies.”

Peter follows Tony out of the alley and into the store, but the whole time they’re perusing scarves and perfume and novelty crystal figurines, all he can think about is how utterly, utterly fucked he is.

*

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow …”

Tony hisses and pops a burned finger in his mouth. It’s completely illogical for a hot glue gun to be more challenging to use than a soldering iron. But he has burned himself more times than he cares to count trying to make homemade fucking ornaments for this fucking Christmas tree.

It’s an aluminum table-top tree, about a foot tall with shiny silver branches and a bow tied at the top in simple red twine. Today’s gift seems to have gone over well, and Tony’s even more excited to see what Peter makes of this one. He can’t shake the sad, soft-eyed look on the kid’s face when he’d spoken about his lost Christmas tree. As always, there’s that drive to fix that sadness, to make it better, burning in Tony’s veins.

The thought of Peter’s face when he sees this tacky tree, covered in multi-colored lights and homemade ornaments, is the only thing that makes Tony persevere in trying to make anything serviceable out of the ribbons, bottle caps and pipe cleaners spread out across his work bench in the lab. Tony made an arc reactor in a cave in Afghanistan. He should be able to handle this, right?

“Well, if it isn’t Santa Claus.”

The shock of Natasha’s voice makes Tony burn himself with the hot glue gun again.

“Shit,” he hisses. “The lab in on lockdown for a reason, Red.”

Natasha just shrugs from her position in the doorway.

“I suspected, but I wanted to see it for myself to confirm,” she says. “You’re Peter’s Secret Santa.”

Tony goes very, very still while the bottom drops out of his stomach. Of course Natasha knows. He’s been an idiot thinking there was even a chance to keep a secret from the super spy.

“What do you want?” he asks after a long, tense silence.

“World Peace?” Natasha says. “A hair dye that doesn’t have to be touched up every month? I could go on…”

“What do you want to keep quiet about this?” Tony demands more forcefully. “New tech? Private workout space? Your own personal quinjet? What?”

His pulse is pounding, and all he can think about is what happens if Natasha decides she should tell Peter everything. He’s already done things he shouldn’t do. He knew when he made it that the puzzle box, and the thing he placed inside it, would come back to bite him. The lines Tony’s set for himself might as well be made of cheap plastic ribbon now, for how easy it is to rip through them.

Natasha’s eyebrows furrow together.

“I’m not going to tell him before Christmas,” she says. “Why would I want to ruin your surprise?”

“You’re not going to tell him at all,” Tony insists.

Nat approaches the workbench, pulls up a stool so she can sit across from him and look him in the eye.

“You’re not going to tell him it’s you?” she asks.

“Nobody wants a creepy old guy as their Secret Santa, Nat. I don’t want to scar him for life.”

She purses her lips as though she’s going to disagree with his very true statement.

“Then what is the point of all this exactly?” Natasha asks, cutting her eyes to indicate the mess of craft supplies laid out before them.

At that, Tony fumbles. It all makes so much sense in his own mind, but actually expressing it out loud is a little harder.

“I …” he says. “I just … I just want to make sure he has a nice Christmas.”

Lame. Very lame.

“I mean, look, Nat,” he fumbles on. “I think we both know the kid hasn’t had a lot of those. So if I want to give Peter a few gifts, make him feel special, what’s the harm in that, huh? I swear it’s all innocent as long as you keep quiet.”

Natasha blinks at him a few times, then lets her head fall into her hands.

“Bozhe moi,” she whispers. “You’re an idiot.”

“Technically, I’m a genius.”

“But a well-intentioned idiot,” she sighs.

Tony feels the muscles in his back relax a little.

“You won’t say anything?”

“I won’t,” she says. “But you should.”

“Not gonna happen.”

She casts a stern look in his direction, but lets it go.

“You should also ask me for help with these ornaments,” she says. “This looks terrible.”

Tony makes himself look as pathetic as possible.

“Help,” he says. “The hot glue gun is trying to kill me.”

“Put that thing down,” Natasha orders. “I’m sure I saw something less complicated than whatever you’re doing on Pinterest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's left me kudos and comments on this story. You give me such joy. I am having an enormous amount of fun giving in to writing every Christmassy trope I can think to include. I hope you enjoy this chapter in all its ridiculous glory.


	3. Legos and Lace

When Peter sees the Christmas tree sitting on the ledge of his window the next morning, his brain goes temporarily offline like someone pulled the plug. He takes in details, but nothing computes.

There’s the tale-tell red ribbon on the top of the little silver tree, funky ornaments that look to be made with buttons and candy canes, and a little brown tag tied around the base. For: Peter. No From:.

His first coherent thought, accompanied by a dangerous leap of his heart, is that Tony must be his Secret Santa.

He’d just told him the story, after all. About his discarded childhood Christmas tree, and the empty way he felt about it.

_Tony Stark is my secret admirer!_ Peter internally screams, and it makes him want to run around the room like a kid hopped up on too many sugar cookies. Then he has to start the deep breathing exercises because it’s still early – the gray light of a rainy dawn just now peeking through his window – and the whole situation is making him feel a little unsteady.

_Be sensible, Peter,_ he lectures himself. _There is no way Tony is actually your Secret Santa. It just doesn’t make sense._ For one, Tony doesn’t think about Peter that much. Peter’s pretty sure he’s like the puppy the man forgets he owns until it starts nipping at his heels for attention.

For another, he doesn’t think Tony has ever used a glue gun in his life, and the ornaments on the tree are adorably homemade and rough around the edges. Honestly, he just told Tony the Christmas tree story last night. Surely that’s not enough time to pull something like this together.

There are other people who know that story, after all. Aunt May, for one. He’d been visibly upset when she told him the news, and he hasn’t abandoned the idea that this is all her.

The only other person he’s told the whole story to is Wade, because he tells his best friend almost everything. But he’s also well-aware that Wade is terrible at keeping anything to himself. It isn’t even always his fault. Sometimes he thinks he’s being completely discreet, but he forgets that everyone can hear him when he has conversations with his boxes.

The truth of the matter is, with Wade in the know, nothing is private. It could still be anyone, and Peter shouldn’t get his hopes up. The gifts can’t be from Mr. Stark.

_Mr. Stark._ That’s is how he should be thinking of his mentor anyway. Honorary. Appropriate. These little fantasies aren’t helping anything. So even if Peter’s body aches from the memory of Tony’s chest against his own, of his hand tugging at Peter’s hair, he’s got to put those thoughts away. It doesn’t do any good.

Anyway, the gifts aren’t event specifically romantic. There have been three: mittens, the puzzle box, and the tree. None of those exactly scream “I love you Peter Parker, please have my babies.” They’re nice. They’re sweetly tailored to Peter’s wants and needs. But he’s only thinking of them through a romantic lens because Wanda had mentioned a secret admirer, and it had stuck in his head.

Peter takes a few more measured breaths, reasons with himself, and then pulls himself out of bed and gets dressed. The day proceeds just a little drearier than it seemed when he woke up.

Tony’s in the kitchen when he gets there, making eggs and bacon by the smell of it. Peter’s chest aches a little watching him spin around the kitchen in a snug Henley and bare feet, crooning “I’ve got my love to keep me warm” under his breath.

“Morning kid, coffee’s on,” he says when he notices Peter enter the room. Then: “Whoa. Are you alright? You look a little like someone ran over your puppy.”

Peter fakes a smile as best he can, pouring himself a cup of coffee for fortification.

“I’m fine,” he says. “My Secret Santa got me a Christmas tree.”

*

“Drink!” Clint caws at Peter from his perch, cross-legged, on the back of the couch. “You lose that round, Petey, drink!”

Peter obediently downs the shot glass in front of him, grimacing at the burn of the spiced rum as it goes down. He’s had … Peter tries to do the math on his fingers and comes up short. He’s had too many of those, even for his super duper spider metabolism. The room is a little wobbly. And from the looks of them, so are most of his teammates.

The impromptu ugly sweater party, and the subsequent drinking game, had all been Clint’s idea. So here Peter is in a red sweater – itchy wool with snowflakes and little blue spiders, the words “Tis the Season to Be Amazing” emblazoned across the chest – playing a drinking game the rules of which are unclear to him. As a matter of fact, Clint seems to be the only one who knows the rules of said game. He is, at least, the designated arbiter of who must drink.

Most of the Avengers have gathered themselves around the coffee table in the living room, either on the floor like Peter, or sprawled on chairs and sofas that they’ve pulled forward into a loose circle. Wanda and Vision are there, Natasha and Sam and Bucky and even Thor, in for a visit from New Asgard to do a little Christmas shopping. Bruce had begged off, heading down to the lab, but Hope and Scott are gamely playing along and even Nebula is sitting beside Peter, poking curiously at the bottles lined up on the table and asking Peter all about this sector’s mind-altering substances. She’s wearing a sweater with a teddy bear in a Santa suit glued to the front, and in his current state Peter thinks it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

“No, no, no, no,” he’s saying. “It’s great. Because you put it in brownies. And it’s yummy and buzzy. Best of both worlds.”

“That seems …” Nebula starts, interrupting herself with a sharp hiccup. “That seems inefficiable. No. Inexcitable? Peter, I believe I have a glitch.”

“And I believe,” he says, sticking his finger in her face. “That you are shit faced.”

“Inefficient!” She shouts, victorious at finding the right word.

“Ok, people,” Clint calls over the murmur of conversation, tugging at the neck of his fuzzy purple sweater. “I want your most shameless mistletoe story. Scott. Go.”

“Oh,” Hope says excitedly tugging at Scott’s arm. “Oh, we are definitely winning this round.”

“This feels like profiling,” Scott says. “How come I get the mistletoe question?”

“Perhaps,” Hope replies. “It’s because you are the only one here who has a mistletoe belt buckle.”

“Classy,” Natasha says from her spot curled up in the corner of the sofa. She, unlike the others, shows not the slightest sign of inebriation. Instead, she watches the proceedings with a knowing, sphinx-like smile, one hand wrapped around Clint’s ankle to keep him steady.

Thor, leaning forward in his squashy leather arm chair, frowns, brow furrowing.

“Is this a ceremonial decoration?” he asks. “I had a brother who was killed by mistletoe. That seems in poor taste.”

“My man, we all agreed no dead people tonight,” Sam reminds him patiently.

“I only used it that once,” Scott is arguing.

“Because I punched you,” Hope counters.

“Double shots!” Clint declares, throwing his hands up in the air like he’s on a very excellent roller coaster. “For tackiness in the first degree.”

Scott grumbles, but knocks back two of the shots lined up on the table in quick succession. Letting out a pronounced “Yeeeeow!” when he’s done.

“I’m confused,” Wanda says, examining the bottom on an overturned shot glass. “Do you drink if you win, or if you lose?”

“Maybe,” Peter says, sagely. “Winning and losing are the same thing.”

“Maybe,” Wanda replies. “You are talking out of your ass, Peter Parker.”

Peter loses himself to a fit of giggles, and it’s at this point that Tony walks in. He’s wearing a sweater with a hideous Christmas tree on the front. The light-up star at the top sits right over where the arc reactor once glowed. It blinks obnoxiously on and off at an irregular interval. His glasses, in deference to the holiday, have dark pine green lenses.

“Wow,” he says, approaching warily and sipping slowly at the glass of scotch in his hand. “Started the party without me, did you?”

“Finish your drink!” Clint orders. “Late fee!”

“Oh no,” Tony replies, leaning against the arm of the sofa and looking around the room. “This seems like a young man’s game. I’ll just be an outside observer.”

Peter’s cheeks blaze when Tony’s eyes land on him. He pulls a beer out of a cooler beneath the coffee table and tries to hide behind it. His defenses against that stare go directly out the window when he’s drunk.

“Are you ill?” Nebula asks, poking his forehead diagnostically. “Your face is a strange color.”

“He doesn’t have anything curable,” Natasha assures her, giving him a cutting look.

Peter coughs, choking on his beer. What does Natasha think she knows? Cold horror seeps into his veins.

“Ok, ok, ok,” Clint says, claiming the spotlight again. “The next question is, worst Christmas present you ever received. I want all the stinkers, folks.”

People start shouting out answers, and Peter thinks about the gift he received just this morning. He’d stepped out of bed and directly onto a small red Lego brick. After some extensive cursing, he’d noticed the brick wasn’t alone. It was one in a line of identical bricks leading out his door and into the hallway.

Following the trail, he’d found what he was looking for sitting on the dining room table. Brown paper, red twine, uninformative tag. When he ripped it open, he’d found a box filled with red, blue and black Legos, and what appeared to be a custom-designed blueprint for a Spider-Mobile. It’s a delightful present. He couldn’t resist pouring the bricks out onto the table and starting work on it right then and there.

And yet, it’s confusing. He can’t figure out if the gifts are intended romantically at all, and this latest offering hadn’t helped. On one hand, that trail of bricks reminded him a little of the trails of rose petals he sees in cheesy Valentines Day commercials. The ones that end in the bedroom with champagne and candlelight. On the other hand, it’s a children’s toy. So.

One thing Peter is increasingly sure of is that whoever keeps leaving him little gifts also lives in the tower. How else to explain the kind of access they have to his room, or the time they’re able to take to set things up? Whoever it is is likely in this room right now.

“Socks!” Sam is shouting over a chorus of several other replies. “Nothing is a worse Christmas gift than socks.”

“I still say the goblin skull was much worse,” Thor booms.

“I want a goblin skull …” Peter hears Wanda whisper faintly.

“I already called dibs on the skull,” Nebula spits at her, a scowl on her face.

“No way, man,” Scott argues. “Underwear is way worse than socks.”

Drunk logic. That’s what Peter will attribute it to, later. He wants some indication of what his mystery benefactor wants from him. He’s tired of scrounging for clues. So he decides to lay down one of his own.

“Underwear definitely doesn’t count as a terrible Christmas gift,” he interjects, projecting his voice to be heard over the others.

Wanda cocks an eyebrow at him. Yep. Peter knew someone would take the bait.

“Is that what you want from your Secret Santa, Peter?” she asks smugly.

“Nothing wrong with something lacy for Christmas,” he says, smiling around the mouth of his beer bottle.

“Drink!” Clint orders him. “10 points to Hufflepuff for top-notch twinkiness.”

This ruling is met with cheers from Clint’s faithful, drunken subjects, and Peter obligingly knocks back another shot. When he looks up from the bottom of the glass Tony’s eyes are on him, expression unreadable behind his dark lenses, but forceful all the same. It’s a look Peter can feel sliding up his chest and neck, and he doesn’t know what it means.

Disapproval, maybe, Peter thinks. Well, fuck that. The burn in his chest from the alcohol and raucous energy of his friends give him the courage to meet Tony’s eyes and give the man a saucy wink.

Nebula pokes him again, swaying toward him and then backwards like a pendulum.

“Are you having a glitch too?” she asks.

The giggle bubbles up out of Peter’s chest and spills over, infecting the rest of the group. Wanda has to wipe the tears from her eyes, Natasha loses hold of Clint, and he tumbles off the back of the sofa with one deep belly laugh, and poor Nebula, unused to Terran alcohol, just sways, and hiccups and smiles wide.

*

Tony isn’t usually a person who dithers, but he approaches Peter’s room four times with the intention of delivering his gift, retreating to his own suite each time in shame.

It’s three in the morning, and he still can’t manage to settle himself. He paces back and forth in his bedroom, staring accusingly at the brown paper package in the center of the bed. It looks so innocent sitting there, but it’s a Trojan horse.

It’s exactly what Peter asked for, he reasons. Something lacy for Christmas. When he’d said it, Tony had felt like his entire body was lit on fire. He couldn’t take his eyes off the kid as he wrapped his lips around his beer bottle and smiled that lazy, perfect smile. Who is Tony to deny him?

He’d left the party early. Everyone else was far too drunk for him to catch up with anyway. And he had a present to pick out. Tony’s a billionaire, so it’s not a challenge to have exactly what he wants sent over to the tower. The red lace is both perfect for the season and will accent Peter’s pale skin in tantalizing ways.

The only question is if Tony has the guts to deliver it. Everything he’s given Peter so far could be construed as friendly. Well, mostly friendly. This is way, way over the line Tony set for himself. It’s way over anywhere the line should be. If Peter were to ever finds out that the gifts are from him, it would change their relationship forever. No going back.

This whole thing is predicated, though, on the idea that Peter never needs to know. What’s the use of his anonymity if he doesn’t make true use of it? The clock ticks over to 3:15. Tony grabs the package from off of his bed, and launches himself out of the door.

There’s no need to be especially careful after Friday unlocks Peter’s door for him. For someone with spider senses, Peter really does sleep like the dead. After a night of drinking, Tony’s sure he’ll be unwakeable.

When the door snicks open, Peter’s laid out on his stomach still fully clothed and on top of the blankets, head tilted to the side as he snores softly. Tony bends down to set his offering onto the nightstand, and gets caught in the light twitching of muscles across Peter’s face. He’s dreaming, and Tony’s drawn in by the unusual softness there. Peter’s almost always animated, his face expressive with whatever he’s feeling – excitement, sadness, determination. But now he’s nearly still, lips barely parted as he exhales.

He’s so, so beautiful, and Tony shouldn’t let himself linger or he’ll be drawn in completely. He drops the package with more force than he intends and hurries out of the room.

When he gets back to his own room, he can’t stop his mind from churning.

He hates the idea of Peter wearing the things he’s picked out for someone else. Some man or woman who could never deserve him. But surely that’s better than the alternative.

He shouldn’t think about the way Peter will look in the lingerie he’s picked out at all – about thighs encased in red lace, and long legs in stockings so sheer they barely exist in this plane of the multiverse. He absolutely shouldn’t think about about Peter dressed that way for him, lying in his bed and waiting to be unwrapped from all that silk and lace.

He tells Friday to turn off the lights and crawls into bed, hoping that the images will fade out of his brain in favor of sleep.

Sleep doesn’t come, though, and after nearly an hour of tossing and turning, he gives in to the impulse that’s burning through him. He closes his eyes and takes himself firmly in hand. In his mind’s eye, Peter’s sitting on his lap, legs spread over his thighs as Tony pushes up into the wet heat of him.

He has lube in the bedside table drawer, but he doesn’t bother with it. He doesn’t deserve that relief, not for what he’s doing now. Tony takes himself fast and rough, cock aching and twitching in his merciless grip.

It takes hardly any time at all. He turns his face into his shoulder. Biting down hard on his own skin to muffle the name he wants to cry out, he comes instead with a strained grunt.

Tony’s body sags, heavy with guilt despite the buoyant endorphins flooding his body. Beneath the guilt he’s feeling, though, is this knowledge: it’s the best orgasm he’s had in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you all for your lovely comments. You are helping me maintain my Christmas spirit. Bless.
> 
> I very much hope you enjoy this chapter. Writing drunk Avengers might be my favorite thing. Seriously, they're so much fun together.
> 
> Also, I know Peter's continued ignorance may be pushing credulity here. As a couple of you have said, of course Peter would realize Tony's behind the gifts after the Christmas tree. I just ask you to remember: These two are idiots. Genius IQ-level idiots.
> 
> Neil Gaiman once wrote a lovely little post about how to seduce a writer with this advice: "Many writers figure out that they're being seduced or flirted with if someone is actually kissing them." I think this holds true for many types of people, including insecure scientist super heroes.


	4. Watches and Mistletoe

Peter wakes the next morning with his head pounding and his mouth tasting of rum and death. Never again, he promises himself. He’s only 22, but he’s already far too old to drink like he did last night. He can’t even imagine how the Avengers without his Spidey healing powers – yes, it helps with hangovers, too – are feeling today.

He starts to sit up in bed, and his stomach objects violently. It would very much prefer he never move again. In the moment, he’s inclined to agree with it. Except he’s still in his itchy sweater, and it makes him want to rip his skin off. So he flips over and struggles out of the sweater with excessive flailing. To an outside observer he would probably look like a turtle trapped on its back.

Offensive garment dealt with, he groans and makes to curl in on himself. It’s then he notices the package in its plain paper sitting on the nightstand. The nausea doesn’t exactly go away, but it retreats to the back of his mind.

Peter can do this thing sometimes where he sort of puts noise-canceling headphones on, except instead of noise, what he’s canceling is pain. Usually it only happens in the heat of battle, where he has to fight through getting shot in the gut or stabbed a couple times. He thinks it’s because his body knows, deep down, that those things aren’t fatal to him, just inconvenient. It can fight through the pain, so it does. It feels a little similar now, though he’s not exactly in a battle.

He sits up in bed and pulls the package onto his lap, pulling the twine at the top to untie it and ripping through the paper with glee. Beneath the wrapping is a simple white box, which Peter opens cautiously.

He digs through what feels like miles of silver tissue paper to find his gift. An initial flash of red coalesces into the full shape as Peter pulls out delicate red-lace boyshorts, sheer red silk stockings with lacy tops, and is that … Yes, yes it is a red garter belt with little gold fastenings to tie the whole look together. _Holy shit_.

Peter’s body, in quick succession flashes hot, cold and then completely numb. He lays the pieces out one by one in front of him and studies them. He remembers the hint he laid out just last night, and considers the swiftness with which his thrown-off request has been fulfilled and the quality of the pieces – so soft and delicate that his mind boggles to imagine their cost.

In the dark recesses of his mind, he wonders what else he could ask for, and have it just as quickly provided. Clothes, certainly. Tech, without a doubt. A car, though? A boat? His own private island? World domination?

The laughter that rises up out of his throat has a slightly hysterical edge because Peter isn’t sure that any of those things are off he table. Not really. Not if he asked _nicely._

He won’t ask, because Peter doesn’t want any of those things. The world is safe for now. But it doesn’t make him feel any less powerful. After all, he seems to have caught the eye of a billionaire super hero.

In retrospect, it’s all so clear. The puzzle box that must surely have been custom-made because Peter still hasn’t been able to break through all its layers, the Christmas tree that so closely matches the one Peter described to Tony, and now this. The picture comes into focus.

Peter’s pretty good at denial, when it suits him. He’s gotten better at self-confidence, but he’s hardly the type to assume someone wants him.

Now, though, with the gift laid out before him, that tense, heavy look from Tony last night makes perfect sense. It wasn’t judgment. He was just planning Peter’s next gift. Planning this. And maybe thinking about how it would look when Peter wore it. About what he’d want to do at the sight.

A line of cold sweat pops up at Peter’s hairline. He feels like he’s burning up, even through he’s sitting on his bed in just his jeans. Jeans that are growing increasingly uncomfortable because _Holy Shit._

Peter feels drunk all over again with the amount of lust spiking through his body. Surely he’s over the legal limit.

On instinct, he tries to regulate his expectations. Could it be Wade who’s behind all this? The man has money, after all, and he’s never been shy about complimenting Peter’s assets. Or maybe it’s Clint or one of the other Avengers playing an elaborate practical joke?

But in his heart, he knows the answer. Probably he’s known from the beginning, on some level. Because as crazy as he’s always been about Tony, he never felt the smallest bit conflicted about accepting the gifts from an anonymous someone. Or about wanting them to mean something.

He’s at least 87 percent sure, now, that Tony is his Secret Santa. Maybe he’ll never be 100 percent sure, not until the man reveals himself. But the more Peter thinks about it, the more he believes Tony’s laying down hints intentionally, waiting for Peter to make the first move, purposefully not applying any pressure. An idea starts to percolate in his mind of what, exactly, his big play should be.

With a wistful sigh, Peter packs the delicate undergarments back into the box, laying a hand over the top when he’s done. _I’ve got plans for you,_ he thinks. Then he hauls himself out of bed and into the shower.

Standing under the steaming spray of water, Peter feels his muscles relax and the sourness on his skin that always comes with a night of drinking slough away down the drain. His mind wanders back to Tony, as per usual.

Normally, Peter’s thoughts about the man feel illicit. But there’s no denying that this latest gift changes things. It’s not exactly permission, but he feels a sense of relief all the same, knowing the man’s been having some illicit thoughts of his own.

Peter’s blood heats, a flash of warmth spreading through his body as he lets his hands slip over his neck and trail down his torso. He teases himself, just a little, circle his thumb around one nipple before he skates further down to grip his cock.

He closes his eyes, falling back into a familiar fantasy. Tony on his knees, looking up at him through long, dark lashes clumped together from the spray of the shower. In his mind’s eye, the other man runs his tongue along the crease of his groin before sinking slowly down onto Peter’s length.

In the fantasy, Tony’s eyes burn, and they never leave Peter’s face even when takes him all the way down and swallows.

Peter takes his time, stroking languidly and enjoying the pleasant twist in his gut that accompanies his building climax without the familiar heavy balance of guilt that usually comes with it. His chest feels warm and light, and he holds himself on the edge for a few long minutes while the hot water beats against his back.

Eventually, though, he starts to shake with need. He twists his wrist in just the right way, thinking about the scratch of facial hair against his naked thighs, and spills onto the tiles.

Peter clings with one hand to the shower wall and waits for his heartbeat to slow and his body to settle. It takes far longer than it should to pull himself together.

*

Tony flips back his safety goggles and looks properly over the inscription he’s just engraved on the watch he’ll give Peter in the morning.

It’s a Borges quote, one of Tony’s favorites: “Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time.” It’s placed, in a script as neat as Tony can make it, on the inside face of the watch. Peter won’t see it until he has to open it up for winding. Another little surprise.

Of course, he won’t grasp the full meaning of it when he sees it, because he won’t know it’s from Tony. Probably for the best he doesn’t know that the ts are a little shaky because the words make Tony think about those five bleak wilderness years when Peter was gone and he was a broken thing who still didn’t fully comprehend all he’d lost.

He still berates himself sometimes. It’d taken him less than a day after Nat, Steve and Scott had come to see him to figure out time travel. If he hadn’t given up hope and resigned himself to mourning, if he hadn’t been so quick to be sure that one of the best things in his life was irrevocably lost, Peter might have been lost months instead of years.

He feels a panic sweat start to break out on his forehead, and Friday has to talk him through some words of affirmation and regulated breathing before he’s ok to move on, close up the watch and put it in its box.

He thinks Peter will like it. The kid doesn’t seem to care much about watches. After all, everyone’s got a clock on their phones now. But to Tony that’s not the point. A man needs a good watch, his father drilled that – among many other less pleasant lessons – into his head from a young age. And Tony flatters himself that Peter will like this one. It will look great on him, make a statement, with a thick industrial-looking leather band and an oversized face in a classy black matte, numbers picked out in a glossier black so they can only be seen if one is really looking.

Tony allows himself a smile of satisfaction as he wraps the box up and ties the twine around it. He’ll put it in its place on Peter’s nightstand later, when Friday lets him know that Peter is in REM sleep.

He regrets, a little, that the game is almost over. After this, he’s just got time for one more gift, and it’s a doozy. He’s going to miss it, seeing the kid’s face when he emerges from his room each morning after a fresh surprise.

This morning had been particularly gratifying. Peter had come into the kitchen still rosy and damp from a shower. He’d sat at the kitchen counter while Tony served up bowls of shakshuka with toast and sipped his coffee with a dazed smile on his face. If Tony hadn’t known any better, he’d have said the kid looked fucked out.

Then Wanda had showed up and asked what his Secret Santa left him, and he’d turned the most delicious shade of pink and stuttered nervously in a way that Tony hasn’t heard since he was still in high school. He was embarrassed but pleased, clearly pleased, as he whispered to Wanda about the gift in a tone so low Tony couldn’t make it out.

Tony’s mouth is a little dry when he thinks about seeing Peter wearing his watch. He really, really likes seeing Peter in things he picks out. And this will be so much better than those silly mittens – a cuff around his arm that Tony placed there, his words etched on Peter’s wrist.

He’s just noticing that his pants are feeling significantly tighter at the thought when Friday alerts him that Peter is approaching the lab and he has to sweep the gift into a drawer and steady himself.

When the kid comes in, he’s in his spidey suit, fresh off a patrol. His hair is tousled from where he’s pulled his mask off, and when he sweeps through the lab he gives off a cold, ionic smell of impending rain from where he’s been swinging so high above the city streets. It makes all the hair on Tony’s body stand up.

“Hey Mr. Stark,” Peter greets, going directly to the work bench that he’s claimed as his own and popping one of the web shooters off his wrist so he can crack it open. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything. One of my shooters is sticking.”

“Sticking?” Tony says, and his mind flashes briefly on Peter plummeting hundreds of feet to the ground because of a faulty web shooter. He shakes off the thought and beckons. “Come over here, let’s take a look at it.”

“No, really, I think it’s just a …”

“It shouldn’t do that since the latest upgrade,” Tony insists, pulling out the box with his smallest set of tools to work on the delicate mechanisms.

Peter looks like he’s about to object, but in the end he just rolls his eyes and complies, laying the web shooter out in front of Tony. He settles on a stool a few feet away to watch him work, and seems surprised when Tony hooks his foot under the stool and pulls him close into his orbit. _What? It’s for science._

“Ok,” Tony says, with a hand on Peter’s neck to direct his gaze. “Show me where you think the problem might be.”

*

Standing in front of a long mirror, Peter tugs at his tie for what must be the hundredth time. They never seem to cooperate, the damn things. He doesn’t wear them often enough to feel really comfortable tying one, and he always feels like he’s being strangled when he does.

Even with his Windsor a little askew, though, he doesn’t think he looks half bad. His suit is a charcoal gray, shirt a shade darker, and his tie is red and green, a seasonal tangle of holly. His new watch is a comfortable weight around his left wrist.

It’s so obviously a Tony Stark gift that Peter feels giddy. The man may as well have signed his name to the tag. The watch feels like the final flourish of a signature, crossing his ts, making sure Peter knows what he’s dealing with. Clasped around Peter’s arm, it feels like a claim. One that he’s more than happy to wear.

Peter’s never really worn a watch, but he likes this one. It’s close enough to the width of his web shooters that it doesn’t feel strange around his wrist, and he likes the look of it – industrial and minimalist. He has no doubt that it cost a small fortune, but it doesn’t look it. He appreciates the thoughtfulness of that restraint.

Despite knowing, objectively, that he looks fine, Peter’s nerves are jangling. It all would have been fine. He had a plan, had mentally prepared. Then he had unexpectedly opened the last set of locks on the puzzle box this afternoon.

He’d just been fooling around with it on his bed, fresh out of the shower, but not yet pressed enough for time that he needed to get dressed, when he’d hit on the right configuration of pictograms on a little tumbler lock, and the box had popped open.

Inside, he’d found a little sprig of greenery with tiny white berries. Mistletoe. It’s a small, romantic gesture that, even hours later, leaves Peter a little breathless. He didn’t expect that, somehow. The idea that Tony might want that with him – soft kisses under the mistletoe – is astounding and overwhelming. It’s something separate from the implications of the lingerie. That could be read as just physical. This isn’t. It’s so much more.

Giving his tie one last yank for good measure, Peter steadies his breathing and heads out to the party. It’s Christmas Eve, and the Avengers are doing things in style. Friends and allies from every far-flung corner of the galaxy have been invited to the tower, along with a number of prominent world leaders.

When Peter enters the living room where the party has been set up, he’s nearly bowled over by a frantic-looking Nebula.

“If my sister asks,” she says, leveling a finger at Peter in warning. “I was never here.”

Peter calls after her, but she’s gone down the hallway in a blur. Well, families can be complicated. Especially during the holidays. He steps further into the room, where soft acoustic Christmas music is playing under the thrum of conversation and the occasional tinkle of laughter.

Across the room, he spots Tony, wearing a Black Sabbath t-shirt under his suit jacket in defiance of the black-tie dress code and effortlessly charming some Army official in full regalia. Peter’s too lost in staring to notice the person approaching him until Wade jostles his arm, and he looks up into the expressive panda eyes of the man’s mask. He’s wearing the Deadpool suit under a full tuxedo and tails, along with a shiny red cummerbund.

“Earth to Petey!” he calls waving a red-gloved hand in front of Peter’s face.

“Sorry,” Peter says, shaking himself. “Sorry, Wade. Merry Christmas. I wasn’t expecting you. Thought you’d be with Ellie tonight.”

“Eh, her momma has her tonight,” Wade says. “I get her tomorrow. And then it’s the traditional Christmas tacos and Harry Potter marathon for us.”

“Christmas tacos?” Peter asks, almost afraid of the answer.

“Oh,” Wade says, excitedly. “You would love them. All your traditional Christmas foods contained in a corn tortilla shell. Ham, cranberry sauce, mac and cheese. Just mwah!”

Peter makes a face at the description.

“Are you taking those multi vitamins I got you?” he asks. “Because sometimes I worry about you.”

“Squeee!” Wade screeches, grabbing hold of Peter and hugging him, squishing his face into his broad chest. “It is so adorable when you worry about my well-being Spidey.”

“Please let me go,” Peter mumbles into the scratchy cotton of Wade’s dress shirt.

When he is finally released with an exaggerated, masked smooch to his forehead, Wanda is standing nearby smirking at him.

“Careful, Wade,” she says. “You’re going to make someone jealous.”

“Wait, what?” Wade asks. “Petey, have you been holding out on me?”

“No!” Peter says, turning to Wanda and putting on his _very serious_ face. “Not exactly. Look, you can mock all you want, but I need a favor…”

Wanda’s smile goes wider and just a fraction more wicked.

Twenty minutes later Peter’s got a cranberry and champagne laced cocktail in one hand, and he’s slowly working his way through the party toward Tony. He’d like to be able to pull a Moses and part the guests to make a path through.

Instead he shakes hands with a lot of congresspeople he barely recognizes from the media briefings Fury organizes, and the occasional actual Avenger. It’s nice to see Peter Quill and Rocket and Groot, back for a month’s leave after a series of interstellar missions. He even gets to give Aunt Carol a big hug and ask after Monica.

He’s being quizzed on nanite technology by some Finnish ambassador (Reciting: “ _No, sir, I’m afraid that information is proprietary to Stark Industries”_ a couple dozen times) and looking a little franticly around the room because he’s lost his quarry, when a familiar hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes.

“Mikael,” Tony says. “If you want to spy on Stark Industries, you’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. My right-hand here won’t be giving you any useful details.”

Mikael sputters, demurs and leaves, but Peter can’t be bothered to pay much attention. Tony’s right there, smelling of some spicy, woodsy aftershave, looking like literal sex, and calling Peter his right hand. He hasn’t called him that before. Usually it’s something more diminutive. _Protégé, Apprentice, Padawan._ It makes the already-present ache in Peter’s chest of one too many good things a little sharper. Then Tony lowers his red-lensed smart glasses down his nose for a second and winks at him, and Peter just knows his smile goes all lovelorn and goofy.

“Save me,” he says, instead of the hundreds of other ridiculous things swirling through his mind, and ignoring the victorious fist pumping that Wade is doing in one corner of the room.

“You poor thing,” Tony says, raising a hand to Peter’s forehead. “Definite networking overdose. Not fatal, but very unpleasant.”

Marking the spot he wants in the periphery of his vision, Peter begins to direct Tony as casually as possible with a hand low on his back. He gestures at his ears, using the pretense of being able to hear better for the move, and if Tony remembers that his hearing is actually super powered, he doesn’t say anything.

“So what’s the cure?” Peter asks, after he’s hit his mark. “Please tell me there is one.”

“As much champagne as you can stomach,” Tony quips back. “Or significantly better company.”

“Covered on both fronts then,” Peter says, knocking back the remainder of his drink and grinning up at Tony. He’s just barely taller than Peter now, only an inch or so.

“Yeah, I think you’ll live,” the other man replies.

Peter’s about to quip back when Wanda manages to remember her line.

“Oh my gosh, Peter,” she exclaims, and really she’s just the worst actress. There’s no way Tony won’t guess that the whole thing has been engineered. “You’re standing under the mistletoe!”

Tony looks up, and Peter follows his eyes, finding exactly what he was expecting, the sprig of mistletoe with its white berries hung in a convenient corner with a lavish red bow.

“What do you say, Mr. Stark?” Peter says, pulling Tony’s gaze back down to him. “It is tradition, after all.”

Tony swallows thickly, furrows his brows together in confusion for an instant. Then the tension clears away, and that familiar smile returns.

“Well,” he says. “We can’t shirk tradition, now can we?”

Peter shakes his head slowly. _No, they mustn’t_.

It happens so quickly that Peter hasn’t the time to catch his breath. Tony literally sweeps him off his feet and into a low dip. He supports Peter with one hand on the back of his neck and the other in the center of his back, Peter’s heels barely touching the floor.

He holds Peter there for what feels like forever, and is probably just a scant few seconds. Peter’s sure that this is the moment when all the subterfuge falls away. He’s trying to answer the question of that mistletoe locked away in his puzzle box. _I want this, too,_ he wants to tell Tony. _I want everything with you._

Instead of a genuine kiss, though, Tony’s lips brush gently against his cheek, a hairsbreadth from the corner of his mouth. Peter feels the scratch of Tony’s beard against his skin. He can practically taste the man’s breath – the smoke and peat of the whiskey he’s been drinking.

“Merry Christmas, Pete,” he whispers, and Peter feels the rumble of his voice flow through his own chest.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispers back.

Then he’s being hauled back onto his feet, expected somehow to support his own weight, while the crowd around them whoops and cheers, and Tony takes a little bow and waves.

Tony pats Peter on the back, and Peter thinks he hears him offer an apology over the noise of the party. He doesn’t respond, just watches as Tony flows back into the party, quickly getting caught up in a conversation with Fury and Maria Hill.

Peter leans back against the wall and tries to steady himself. _You’re a fucking tease, Tony Stark,_ he thinks, _but I’ll have my way with you tonight._

*

It’s well past midnight by the time Tony’s able to pull himself away from the party. There are still a few stalwart souls keeping the fun going when he leaves. Thor and the Guardians are settled around the dining room table, playing some sort of table-top game that Tony suspects is just space D&D, and Natasha and Clint are locked in what looks to be a very intense interrogation that may also be a game. The other guests, though, have gone home or retired to their rooms.

The party was a success. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, and the PR move of letting government officials rub elbows with actual Avengers is sure to be a boon in the coming year.

Tony even managed to behave himself tonight. Well, mostly. There had been that incident under the mistletoe with Peter. But he’d restrained himself to a kiss on the cheek, and that’s innocent enough, isn’t it? At least compared to what he wanted to do. Really, admirable self control.

Especially once he noticed that Peter was wearing Tony’s watch. As expected, it looked great on him, and the creature in Tony’s gut had growled its approval at the sight of it.

He hopes he didn’t push the kid too far, though. Much as Tony tried to keep the kiss tame and put on a show, he’s always a little worried about coming off as a dirty old man. He lost track of Peter soon after that. It wasn’t hard with how crowded the room had been, but it’s still slightly concerning.

Soothing over any awkwardness, however, will have to wait for the morning. Right now, Tony’s going to head to bed. He has to be up early to prep Peter’s last Secret Santa present, and he doesn’t want to be too exhausted to really enjoy the kid’s reaction.

He’s so caught up in thoughts of the morning, Christmas morning, that he doesn’t notice anything strange when he enters his suite. It’s the candles that eventually alert Tony to something being off. A flickering of light against the walls catches his attention as he walks into the bedroom, making him pause in slipping out of his jacket.

His eyes go first to the candles themselves, set out on his dresser and burning low, then skate across the room to the bed where … Where … Where …

Tony’s brain stutters and fizzes out and then in again. Peter. Peter Parker is in his bed. Peter Parker is in his bed and wearing lacy red lingerie. Lingerie that Tony bought him. Because he is a bad, bad man.

Unbidden, Tony’s eyes roam along the kid’s body, taking in firm, pale calves wrapped in red stockings, bare, milky thighs. His gaze lingers, far longer than it should, on the delicate red lace underwear that hugs Peter’s hips and strains against the bulge of his groin. He swallows and looks up over that preternaturally muscled chest to the base of Peter’s neck. What at first appears to be a choker turns out to be instead a piece of red twine – the same kind that Tony used to wrap all of his gifts – tied with a bow resting in the hollow of the kid’s throat.

Tony should say something. He almost certainly should, but no words come immediately to mind. He’s stunned mute by the absolute beauty on display before him. His breath is coming quick and shallow, and he can’t … He just can’t.

It falls to Peter to break the heavy silence that has enveloped the room. He raises himself from his reclined position, kneeling on the bed so that his face comes fully into the faint light.

“You, Tony Stark, are an impossible man to shop for,” he says, with a slow smile spreading over his face. His voice is pitched low, like this is all a secret, and the tone makes Tony want to lean in close and take the words directly from his lips.

“But after some careful consideration,” Peter continues, fingers trailing up and down his own thighs, right above the lacy edge of the stockings. “I think I found the thing you really want for Christmas. After all the gifts you gave me, I couldn’t leave you empty-handed, could I?”

He toys with the hem of the underwear, fingers slipping nervously under and then over the edge of the lace.

“So what do you think, Mr. Stark?” Peter prompts. “Did I get it right?”

The question hangs between them. Tony stands there slack for a long moment and just allows himself to _want._

But his brain doesn’t work like that for long. Parts of what Peter just said filter through. _Couldn’t leave you empty-handed, could I? Mr. Stark …_ Oh god. He thinks … He must. Which means Tony fucked it up again. Like he does in every single relationship. Because now Peter thinks he owes Tony something, and he’s kneeling there looking like every single one of Tony’s worst, best fantasies.

The silence hasn’t lasted that long, hardly even stretching to awkward, but Peter clearly feels the strain of it. His mouth twists into a downward slope, and his brow furrows in uncertainty. All the confidence of a moment before leaches away.

He looks so vulnerable with that little frown on his face. Soft and breakable, and sill impossibly beautiful.

Tony makes up his mind. He takes one more long look at Peter, stowing the image away for another time. Then he turns efficiently on one heel and runs. Tony runs out the door of his suite, through the hall, into the elevator and out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll this chapter is coming far later than intended, but what can I say? Real life intervenes. I hope you all had a very merry Christmas and that you enjoy!


	5. White Christmas

Peter stares blankly into the space where Tony once stood, mouth slightly ajar, thoughts an unexceptional buzz in the back of his brain. He left. He _left._ No, actually, he ran. Practically sprinted away from Peter as fast as he could go.

And Peter’s just kneeling here, still, in this ridiculous outfit. Just a few minutes ago he had felt so sexy and powerful. Now he just feels like a joke. His throat aches, and his eyes are swimmy, but he’s not going to cry. Not here. Not on Tony’s pillows. And not while he’s wearing a fucking garter belt.

With a groan, Peter collapses onto the bed and wraps his arms around himself to hide his body … From whom, exactly? It doesn’t matter. From the world at large. Maybe he should have been expecting it, Parker Luck being what it is, but before he left, Peter would have sworn that Tony was looking at him with lust in his eyes. He had looked like he’d wanted to tear him apart with his teeth.

So why, then, is Peter not being pleasantly and metaphorically dismembered? It doesn’t make sense. Tony sent him mistletoe. He sent him sexy lingerie. He learned how to use a glue gun, and designed him custom presents, and delivered them to Peter’s room while he slept for a whole week. He touches Peter _all the time_ – a hand to his neck, or his back, or his knee. He flirts with him, way more than he flirts with anyone else, which is saying a lot. And he’s always watching Peter from behind those fucking glasses, gaze obscured but still palpable as a physical touch.

Peter’s shame starts to shift into something else. Not just anger. Indignation. This. This cannot stand. At the very least Peter’s owed an explanation. He pulls himself off the bed, searching for something to cover himself and pulling on one of Tony’s discarded button-downs from the foot of the bed.

“Friday,” he says. “Tell me where he went.”

“Boss is currently in a state of distress on the roof, Peter,” Friday replies. “I would appreciate an intervention.”

“I’ll show him distressed,” Peter mutters as he stalks to the elevator and tells Friday “Take me up.”

When Friday opens the elevator door to the roof, Peter’s hit full in the face with an icy blast of wind. His teeth start to clatter together. He’s used to being out in all weather, but he’s gone soft since Tony set him up with a suit with a built-in heater. Comes in handy, that.

They have the roof set up as a sort of outdoor lounge for the summer months, with a picnic table, a fire pit, and even a Tiki bar. There’s a reason they don’t use it during the winter, though. Peter’s fucking freezing. He should have at least stopped to put on some shoes. The concrete is so frozen that it almost burns his bare feet.

Tony, however, doesn’t seem to feel the cold. He’s pacing back and forth across the concrete, hands flying about like he’s having a conversation with himself. He always did talk with his hands.

Peter steps forward, pulling the shirt tighter to his body in a vain attempt to conserve body heat. Tony doesn’t turn to look at him, but he must catch Peter in the periphery of his vision, because he holds a halting hand out in his direction.

“You need to stop right there, kid,” he says, voice strained.

Peter obeys, stumbling a little over his own feet and watching as Tony’s shoulders tense like he’s about to take a hit. Like Peter’s something to be afraid of. It’s so deeply infuriating.

“What is your damage, Tony?” he shouts, his voice echoing out in the quiet. They’re so high up that the usual noises of the city are soft and distant, making Peter’s outburst all the more jarring.

“What?”

Finally, the man turns to face him. That, at least, is gratifying.

“Seriously,” Peter says. “Do you have anything at all to say to me?”

Tony grimaces, his face turned down to the ground.

“Don’t you have a coat?” he says, words coming out too quick, blurring together in agitation. “Or did you lose that too? You know what, I’m just gonna buy you a new one. Do you prefer goose down or synthetic? Never mind. I’ll choose. Your taste isn’t always the best, kid.”

Peter looks down at himself. He’s not even wearing any pants, and his pale legs have broken out in goosebumps. He’s several steps from needing a coat. But that’s not what this is. Tony’s doing what Tony does best. He’s talking to avoid saying anything. Filling up the silence with nothing but noise.

“Nope,” Peter says, setting his jaw stubbornly. “You don’t get to buy me anything else. Not until you’ve explain yourself.”

He watches as Tony’s jaw twitches and his hands clench into fists.

“Please,” he says, and he hates how small his voice sounds. “I just want to understand.”

He holds his breath, waiting for he doesn’t know what.

In response, Tony straightens to look at Peter instead of the ground. He stands there for a long moment with shoulders slumped. Then he slowly removes his glasses, tucks them into his pocket, and rubs agitatedly at his face.

“You weren’t supposed to find out it was me,” he says, letting out a pained little sigh. “I just … I liked it. Picking things out for you. Seeing your reaction. It was … It was good. And I told myself that it would all be fine, as long as you never found out. That it could just be my little secret. I thought I could get it out of my system.”

Peter can’t quite process everything Tony is saying. His chest warms a little at the sentiment, but it’s also deeply confusing. How could he possibly think …

“Jesus Christ, Tony,” he says. “Did you think you were being subtle?”

The words just spill out of his mouth, incredulous and too sharp. It’s clearly the wrong thing to say, because Tony’s face sinks into a frown. He shrugs, digs a toe into the concrete. Of course. Of course he thinks he was being secretive.

Tony Stark is so many things. He’s brilliant, and innovative, and mouthy and generous. And he doesn’t have a dissembling bone in his entire body. For God’s sake, he was Iron Man for all of five minutes before he saw fit to call a press conference and announce it to the world. For all of the things he is, Tony’s never been anything but 100 percent himself. It’s almost too much for Peter’s heart to take. The emotion it elicits feels too big.

“Fuck,” he says. “I adore you.”

Peter thinks Tony probably could have probably guessed that the moment when he showed up in the man’s bed wearing a red bow and little else. But he looks up at Peter, and his jaw unhinges a little. He certainly seems surprised.

With the glasses off, his face is so open and expressive. Peter can read the emotions as they flow across his face and flicker behind his eyes. Shock, doubt and … Hope? Peter wants to press his advantage, to step forward and just demand outright “Tell me if you love me Tony Stark.” And watch the answer shine through. But at this precise moment, it feels like taking advantage. He seems so vulnerable. So Peter takes a different tack.

“What was my last present going to be?” he asks.

It’s enough of a non sequitur to puncture the weird tension that’s been building ever since Peter stepped out onto the roof. Tony blinks.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asks.

“There’s one more, right?” Peter prompts. “It’s gotta be two in the morning already. Technically Christmas. I wanna know what my Christmas present is.”

Tony seems to consider this carefully, then nods and holds out a finger to Peter. _One minute._

He goes behind the tiki bar, where a large black box with a chute at the top and a few buttons and levers is sitting. Peter didn’t notice it before, because it’s mostly in shadow back there.

“It’s not set up the way I wanted it yet,” Tony calls back to Peter. “I was gonna get up early in the morning, and make sure everything was in order. But all things considered, you might as well have it now.”

He flicks a few switches, pulls a lever emphatically. The air is filled with a rumbling mechanical groan, then a churning whine that Peter can feel in his chest. He jumps back about a foot when something starts pouring out of the chute at the top of the box.

It isn’t until the first cold, white flake lands on the tip of his nose that he fully understands.

Tony steps toward Peter, arms out, and hands raised to a sky now full of gently falling snow.

“A white Christmas,” he says. “For your last gift, I got you a white Christmas.”

Maybe Peter was wrong earlier. He really is going to cry while he’s wearing a garter belt. He feels the hot tears building behind his eyes even while cold snowflakes cling to his lashes. He approaches Tony cautiously, knowing he could spook at any moment and run again.

He stops when he’s a few inches away, placing his hands on Tony’s chest, wrapping his fingers around the lapels of his suit jacket. Their faces are so close together that the steam of their breath mingles together as it rises.

“Do you really not want to kiss me in the snow?” Peter asks, and it comes out less confident than he intended.

But it’s ok, because from this distance he can definitely see the desire playing out over Tony’s face. The way he bites his own lip, and his eyes focus on Peter’s mouth.

“I want a lot of things, Pete,” Tony says, voice deliciously rough. His hands come up to smooth over Peter’s cold shoulders. “But I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything. There’s no reciprocity required here. I just liked giving you gifts. It’s not …”

“God, you’re an idiot,” Peter whispers, with a roll of his eyes. “I know how presents work, Tony. I know I don’t owe you anything. But if you want me, then you should know that I want you too. Have for a long time.”

Tony’s hands move up Peter’s shoulders to his neck, where he rubs a thumb over the twine still looped there.

“I don’t deserve …”

Peter shakes his head, unwilling to take in a protest like that.

“Shut up,” he says, and lifts himself up onto his toes, bringing their lips together and cutting off the rest of the sentence.

It starts out as just a brush of lips, noses bumping against each other, awkward and chilled. Tony’s beard scratches against his cheek in a way that’s sure to leave a raw patch. It’s perfect.

“You’re freezing,” he breathes against Peter’s lips, wrapping strong arms around him, and bringing their bodies flush together.

“Well, then you better warm me up,” Peter replies.

*

Peter kisses him, and all the resistance that Tony’s been clinging to snaps. He wraps his arms around the kid and feels that shivering body melt against him.

Tony find his mouth again, groaning when cold lips part to allow him access to the warmth inside. Their tongues twist together, and Tony’s instints urge him to devour, to take Peter apart inch by inch. His fingers trail across a well-muscled back down to that perfect ass wrapped in soft lace.

He grips, and Peter whines against his lips, nipping and pressing Tony back. It takes him off guard, and he stumbles over his own feet before Peter steadies them, nudging at Tony’s knees until he’s sinking down onto the bench of the picnic table.

Tony lands with a jolt that succeeds in breaking their mouths apart. He looks up at Peter, dazed, and the kid has the audacity to laugh. If he weren’t so quick to follow that by climbing into Tony’s lap, he might protest.

All his protestations die away when Peter kneels, bracketing Tony’s thighs with his own, and kisses him again. Tony’s so turned on that he feels like he’s the one with the super senses. He’s keenly aware of every point at which they’re touching. Peter’s fingers comb reflexively through the hair at the back of Tony’s head, holding him gently in place to be properly ravaged. His nipples are hard, cold points rubbing against Tony’s chest entrancingly, and his cock is impossibly hot and hard, pressed against Tony’s stomach.

He keeps one hand low on the kid’s back and lets the other trail up his toned stomach to lazily circle one nipple. Peter gasps and pulls back just an inch or so from Tony’s mouth.

His lips are red and swollen from kissing, there’s a pink patch of beard burn on his chin, and there are glistening snowflakes clinging to his lashes. Tony’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. Peter’s breath is coming quick and shallow, and his pupils are dilated into huge black spheres. Around them, the snow falls in thick flurries.

“God,” Peter whines when Tony replaces his fingers with his mouth and laves the nub with his tongue. “Don’t stop. Like, ever.”

He grumbles unhappily when Tony finally does pull away.

“Don’t be a brat,” Tony says with a chuckle. “I want a proper look at you.”

His eyes skate down Peter’s torso and focus on where his hard length is straining against the delicate lace of his underwear, ruddy head peeking out over the hem. He runs a finger along the underside, feeling the kid twitch and shake above him as he circles the tip with his thumb.

Peter thrusts up minutely into the touch.

“Please, please, please …” he chants.

“It’s alright, Pete,” Tony soothes, rolling down the fabric so he can take Peter firmly in hand. “I’ve got you.”

But Peter shakes his head, sending ice flying off the tips of his curling hair.

“You too,” he says, once he’s finally able to articulate. “I want to touch you too.”

His fingers are clumsy as he undoes the button and zipper on Tony’s slacks and pulls down his underwear. Tony’s been hard enough to hammer vibranium nails since the second Peter crawled into his lap, but when the kid’s hand closes around him, he somehow gets harder.

“Fuck,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Fuck, kid, what you do to me.”

Peter presses his forehead against Tony’s and starts to stroke. His fingers are cold, but it does nothing to make his erection flag. Inspriation strikes, and Tony grabs Peter’s thighs and hauls him closer, then he knits his fingers with Peter’s and brings their cocks together. The feel of that silky, warm skin against his own his like heaven.

“Oh that, that’s much better,” Peter chokes out. “You’re a genius.”

“I thought I was an idiot,” Tony says, kissing the edge of Peter’s smile, the frigid tip of his nose, the dip of his chin.

“Idiot savant,” Peter huffs. “You have a very specific set of skill-argh!”

Tony cuts off Peter’s quip by swirling a thumb over his tip, spreading the moisture there around before guiding their hands to stroke together.

“What was that, wise guy?” he asks. “I don’t think I quite caught it.”

Peter buries his head in Tony’s shoulder and lets out a long, low moan.

“That’s what I thought.”

The kid raises his head to nip at Tony’s earlobe. His voice is still shaky when he whispers in his ear.

“Next time, I want to be inside you.”

The thought of Peter splitting him open, claiming him in that way, sends a shudder of pleasure arcing down Tony’s spine. He didn’t realize how much he wants it until the words are said. He redoubles his efforts, ending with a twist at the end of each stroke that makes Peter shiver deliciously.

“That better be a promise,” he says.

“Promise,” Peter nods, breathlessly. “Promise.”

Seeing the kid like this, open and lost to desire, just makes Tony greedy for more. It was stupid to think he didn’t want anything from the kid. He wants everything. Absolutely everything.

He sucks a bruise onto the underside of Peter’s jaw then leaves a trail of kisses down his long, elegant neck.

“I’m so close,” Peter says. “Please, Tony.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” Tony says. “Give it to me. I want it.”

His lips reach the base of Peter’s neck, and he flicks his tongue against the twine tied there, takes it firmly between his teeth and _tugs._

Peter comes with an almost pained cry, spilling over their interlaced fingers. The sight of it makes Tony feels like his brain is full of pop rocks and his skin is buzzing with electricity. He jerks his hips, gliding through the slick mess that Peter left once, twice, three times, and then he falls over the edge, white hot pleasure sizzling down his spine, as his teeth dig harder into the makeshift collar around Peter’s neck.

They cling together in the aftermath, breaths coming harsh and labored. Tony doesn’t complain when Peter burrows even deeper into him, even though there’s an unpleasant squelching as he does, and his elbows dig into Tony’s ribs. He’s never been happier.

As the high of his orgasm seeps out of his body, he notices the cold creeping in. The shirt Peter had been wearing – Tony’s shirt – is now hanging off his shoulders, and Tony can trace the goosebumps popping up across his shoulder blades with his fingers.

All around them, a blanket of snow has coated the ground, softening the ambient noise from the street below and making the world around them sparkle.

“I think we better head inside before you turn into a human icicle,” he tells Peter.

“Not yet,” the kid says, lifting his head out of the crook of Tony’s neck to look around. “I haven’t got to enjoy my present yet.”

“Damn, youth is a grand thing,” Tony says. His knees are aching with the cold, and his muscles are sore from recent exertions.

“Tony,” Peter whispers in between kisses against his jaw. “Do you want to build a snowman?”

*

Peter wakes the next morning with a warm weight pressed against his back, and an arm wrapped around his waist. He feels a featherlight kiss between his shoulder blades and shuffles back until he’s nestled neatly against Tony.

Flashes of last night, blinding pleasure and gently falling snow, break through his cloudy mind. He lets them rumble around, but doesn’t feel the urge to do anything about it. A happy lassitude has seeped into his bones.

“Too early,” he grumbles. “Sleep.”

“No fun,” Tony protests, licking a stripe up his spinal column in a very tempting way.

But Peter won’t be deterred. His eyes are heavy with exhaustion, and his brain still fuzzy.

“Fun later,” he mumbles, turning over so he can drape himself completely over Tony like a weighted blanket. The sun is just starting to peak through the blinds of Tony’s bedroom. It must be his. It smells like him. “Sleep now.”

“Mmmkay,” Tony agrees, allowing Peter to arrange himself as he wants, and bringing his arms up to encircle him. “S’good plan.”

With Tony’s chest rising and falling softly beneath his own, his fingers scratching softly at the chest hair above the arc reactor scar, Peter can reassure himself every time he floats into consciousness that it wasn’t all a snowbound dream. It was real. This is real. They fall back into sleep, wrapped happily together.

The next time Peter wakes is decidedly less pleasant, however. The mattress bounces jarringly, and Peter’s eyes spring open. Tony’s expression mirrors his own in shock, eyebrows creeping up into his hairline.

“Get up, lazy asses,” Clint’s voice reaches them from the foot of the bed. When Peter cranes his neck to look down the bed he sees him dressed in reindeer pajamas and a red set of felt antlers, and bouncing his knees on the mattress. “It’s Christmas. We’ve been waiting for you for the past two hours to open presents.”

Clint seems completely unfazed by finding them naked in bed together. Though, Peter reasons, maybe he doesn’t know about the naked part. He reaches for the blanket to hide more fully under it, and finds that it’s slid off of his back and down to the floor. Well, Clint definitely knows about the naked, then.

“Go ‘way,” Peter says, with a wave of his hand. He wraps himself more firmly around Tony, the little setules on his fingers gripping lightly to warm, tan skin.

“Tickles,” Tony breathes against his ear.

“We’re stuck now,” Peter says. “Oh no. Can’t move. Go on without us.”

“Full sentence!” Clint crows. “You’re awake. C’mon.”

Tony cracks his jaw on an enormous yawn, and jostles Peter with a grip on his thighs.

“I can tell you from experience, he won’t go away on his own, kid,” he says, voice raspy from sleep. “We may as well get up.”

Peter grumbles, but acquiesces. He flops unceremoniously off Tony, and then slithers off the side of the bed so he can wrap the blanket around himself and search for his clothes. Which of course he doesn’t have, because he was mostly naked and possibly pre-hypothermic by the time they made it inside last night.

The very sad-looking shreds of his underwear and stockings are in the corner of the room, and there’s literally nothing else for him to put on.

“Bottom drawer on the left,” Tony tells him, groaning as he, too, rises from bed. “Borrow whatever you like.”

Peter nods and crawls towards the bureau in question, finding sweat pants and a t-shirt that don’t entirely drown him. He tucks his nose into the fabric of the shirt and breathes in Tony’s spicy scent.

“Shoo, Legolas,” Tony’s saying. “We’ll be right out.”

They get a round of applause when they finally enter the living room together, and Peter blushes a dark cranberry red. Even without Clint’s smug smile assuring him that everyone knows the details now, Peter’s untamable _Just Fucked Hair™_ , and Tony’s proprietary hand on his back probably tell the story plainly enough.

“Finally,” Natasha says, red nails clattering against her coffee cup. “You’re both exhausting, by the way.”

“Yes, yes,” Tony says. “You’re very clever, super spy.”

He gives a Miss America wave to the room at large.

“Get it out of your systems now, children. You get one freebie each, and then I start confiscating tech.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to hold out until the class of 2030 comes of age?” Sam shouts out at the same time that Bucky asks “Don’t you have t-shirts older than him?”

“Peter, I believe you have put on the incorrect clothes,” Nebula comments before Wanda grabs her and starts whispering in her ear with a giggle. He watches as her eyes first narrow at him and then go very large.

She gives Wanda a disbelieving look, and then flicks her eyes back to Peter.

“That’s disgusting,” she mutters. “Terran mating rituals are so strange.”

After a little more ribbing from their friends, they all settle down to the very serious business of opening presents. The wrapping paper flies, and they’re soon staring out over the drifts of discarded paper and tangled ribbon. The room smells like coffee, and hot chocolate, and the oranges that Bruce passed out muttering something about scurvy and eating something besides candy.

Peter’s looking contentedly over the ravages of Christmas morning, sitting at Tony’s feet with a hand wrapped around the man’s calf, when he feels eyes on him. When he turns, he finds Wanda sizing him up.

“What?” he asks, trepidatiously.

“Don’t hold out on us,” she says. “We’ve all seen Tony’s presents. I want to know what you got him.”

Like it’s moving through molasses, Peter feels his heart slowly sink down to his stomach. He’d meant to buy Tony something. Really he had. But it had been such a struggle to figure out what to get the man who literally had everything he could ever want. So he’d saved it for the last minute, hoping something would present itself. And then the whole week had turned into a whirlwind of hope and uncertainty. Peter had forgotten about it entirely. _Fuck. Fuckity fuck._

He scrambles to his knees, looking up at Tony with wide, apologetic eyes.

“Oh my God, Tony,” he says. “I’m the worst boyfriend ever. I didn’t get you anything for Christmas.”

To his credit, Tony’s able to maintain a very serious expression for an admirable 30 seconds. Then his face cracks into a grin. His snort transforms into a belly laugh as he tugs on Peter’s arm to pull him into his lap.

Peter allows himself to be manhandled, still contrite.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, running his nose along the line of Tony’s beard and ignoring the overdramatic groans from the peanut gallery. “I’m such a mess.”

With a thumb under his chin, Tony forces his head up so they’re looking at one another.

“I thought we agreed you gave me my Christmas present last night,” he says, low enough that it can’t be caught by those around them.

Peter just rolls his eyes at that.

“It’s not the same,” he says.

“It’s better,” Tony insists. “But if it makes you feel better, you can make it up to me next Christmas.”

Next Christmas. _Next Christmas._ It’s not as though Peter entered into this thinking it would be a temporary thing, but the ease with which Tony assumes they’ll be in this same position next year makes something soft bloom in his chest. It’s overwhelming. He hangs his head, resting it in the crook of Tony’s shoulder.

Peter can see it too. A line of Christmases spread out before them. Can see them trimming the tree, and arguing over when’s too soon to start the Christmas music, and creating new traditions all their own.

“It’s a deal,” he tells Tony. “Next Christmas. Be prepared for your mind to be blown.”

“Darling, if you wanna do that you do not have to wait a year,” Tony says, pressing his smile against Peter’s cheek. “That can be arranged immediately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, ya'll!
> 
> As always, thanks so much to everyone who read along, and to those who left comments and kudos on this story! I loved hearing from all of you, even if it was just to drop in to scream indignantly. I KNOW. I AM ALSO MAD AT TONY. Idiots in love, am I right?


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